


Friday on earth

by Cancer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cancer/pseuds/Cancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Cas wakes at dawn, with dreams that seem reality, his grace vanishes in his hands like mist in the winter, and the bed smells like things that he doesn’t know how to explain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday on earth

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Viernes en la tierra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055183) by [Cancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cancer/pseuds/Cancer). 



> This is a translation of my only Destiel fanfic. It's a gift for Michelle, because she loves Destiel and she's a wonderful person and she wanted to read it and I hope you don't regret this, sweetheart.   
> My apologies if I wrote something wrong, still not a really good english. Also a million of thanks to Diana because she's an awesome beta as always

Sometimes he wakes up at dawn, still having trouble accepting that he has to sleep, and it’s the instinct what makes him open his eyes, more than the desire to awake. He stirs in the bed and a sigh escapes making him confused.   
It's been some time, Dean believes that it should have been enough but sometimes 'being' is stronger than habit and Cas has time being human but all that centuries that he left behind weigh, and no matter how much he thinks that it’s a chance not torture, he still looks at the sky just like he used to look at the earth, full of longing.

He wakes up, sighs and startles as emerging from a nightmare and some sobs escapes from him. And Dean wakes up each time; he sleeps with his face looking at the wall, but he turns in the bed without saying a word.   
It's the same Cas, expressionless, looking at you straight in the eyes, right in the soul and he looks at you even if he cannot read you anymore. It's the same but is so far from home and sometimes as far away from himself that he has to look for himself every morning when he wakes up; the one who wakes up at dawn and smile and then realize that he was dreaming and get confused, because dreaming is like heaven, like the kite tuesdays at the park of memories that don't belong to him. Awaking is to fall again, and the emotions still hit too hard when are so sudden. Dreaming and waking. Happiness and chaos. 

Dean turns, embraces him and whispers slowly, his voice muffled by sleep and the lump in his throat that he cannot swallow, "you’re doing fine, Cas. You're doing it well, you're better human than many of us" soft as he never is when he's awake. Cas hugs him back, because it's easy to do, the way that humans show affection, the way that the body was made, perfect to fit to another; a second when he think about god again, and he can't be upset though he now knows what that is. 

Dean's beard is scraping his skin and he feels ants in his back but smile because now he knows there isn’t any ants there, and it's fine if he likes how soft his legs intertwine, the way his breath calms down when Dean caresses his sides, that is ok if his body reacts by itself, and the anxiety of the need to hold on at something, the comfort of knowing that that something can be Dean's neck, and that if Dean growls is not because he is doing something wrong. 

Sometimes Cas wakes at dawn, with dreams that seem reality, his grace vanishes in his hands like mist in the winter, and the bed smells like things that he doesn’t know how to explain. Smells like illusions, but also smells like him, smells like Dean and Dean smells warm, somnolent, a little like detergent, dried saliva and sweat, a little like whiskey, powder and salt. If he closes his eyes and inhales deep, sunken face in Dean's neck and ears full of whispers, it seems like thursdays in Mary Ann's heaven; summer, the unmade bed, the window open, the blankets tangled in the legs and cannabis incense in the header.  
If he closes his eyes and inhales, he can smell things that are not there but always take him to reality, a three-day pajama, all week sheets, throbbing between his legs, pure honey, a whisper that says 'Clarence' and musk lotion. Smells like home, breakfast porridge made by Sam and the best scrambled eggs and bacon in the state, such that Dean makes when he wakes in good mood. 

If he closes his eyes, breathes, and their bodies merge by the hips, the bed smells warm, even when 'warm' is not a smell, the darkness shines though is colorless, the grace has never gone and everything is comfort.  
If he closes his eyes and breath, he knows where he is, the nightmares can't hurt you if you have a gun under your pillow and a Winchester in your bed; and no matter how heavy everything looks because everything has always been made to be perfect.

Sometimes Cas wakes at dawn and it's not tuesday on heaven, it's only friday on earth, there are monsters to hunt, one day more in the calendar, weeks in addition to a year of being human.


End file.
